Seven Shots
by Mehrana
Summary: Pour, tip back, swallow. This was how Ivan Braginski operated.  T for somewhat-mild violence


**[A/N: I have absolutely no idea where this came from, seriously. I just felt like writing something about Ivan and then my fingers sort of took off without me, and… Yeah. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Ivan, Toris, Eduard, Raivis or any of the other Hetalia characters/Hetalia itself. *has no clever disclaimer, boo***

**Anyway, enjoy~!]**

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><p><strong>Seven Shots<strong>

_Pour, tip back, swallow. Warm, hot, melting the ice from within. Calm._

_Pour again, tip back, swallow; begins to overheat. Anxious._

_Pour once more, tip back; another shot makes it warmer, now it's burning. Anger._

_Pour a fourth time, spill a little, tip back; heart begins to boil and stomach churns._

_Fury._

This was how Ivan Braginski operated. Every day, the same routine. He'd come home to a supper, Toris and Eduard and Raivis sitting at the table waiting for him. He'd sit down, he'd eat. He'd smile, and act cheerful, but with obvious tension in his voice.

About an hour later he'd sit in his favorite chair, with a full bottle of vodka. The first shot would make him warm inside and his icy, cold indifference would melt. He'd be pleasant for a half an hour. He'd call Toris over, and they'd chat. Sometimes Eduard and Raivis would join them.

Soon he'd grow bored, and take another shot. It would be a little too warm, but it didn't hurt. Not yet. He'd be a little anxious, a little tense, maybe he'd snap at Raivis if the little one said something stupid. That would almost always lead to another shot, to calm him down.

The third shot would make his insides pulse, overheated. Sometimes he'd just be loud, but that was a rare occurrence. No, the third shot almost always made him angry. He would turn on the three with fire in his eyes, and he would snap at them, and maybe he would send Raivis and Eduard away, so it was only he and Toris. He favored Toris because Toris wouldn't snap back. He would politely accept the words of anger and spite and not say a thing. Usually by now Ivan would grow tired, and he would leave, or sleep in his chair. But sometimes he would not. Sometimes he would want to stay.

Sometimes this would lead to a fourth shot. It would set his body on fire, and he would feel the heat in the ends of his fingers and the tips of his toes. They'd get restless. Sometimes- rarely- he would keep them still; keep them controlled. But usually he would not. His hands would reach out to Toris, and they would strike him. His feet would do the same. He would stand and beat his eldest pet, until he cried or until Ivan had enough.

It was not until then that he would retire upstairs, leaving Toris in a sometimes-bruised, sometimes-bloody mess on the floor.

He would take the bottle with him.

_Pour, shaky hands, tip back, lie down. Calms the burn (but not yet gone), calms the itch, eyelids heavy. Drowsy._

_Pour, spill a shots-worth, tip back, relax. Burn is gone; there's nothing there. Eyelashes pull eyelids down. Empty._

_Splash, tip back, drips down the chin. Cold and tired, has drunk enough to hear the sobs from below the floor. Sad._

_Grab the bottle, knock it back. Everything is cold, the air smells of blood. Only warmth in the room is from wet, salty tears._

_Dead inside._

This was how Ivan Braginski operated. Every night, the same routine. He'd retire to his room, and forget about the blood on his hands, and on the tips of his boots. He wouldn't bother to change as he'd take his fifth shot, and would lie down. The anger would be fading- not quite gone- and his eyelids would be heavy.

The process of pouring a sixth shot would spill almost that much on the bedside table; Ivan wouldn't care. He would bring the liquid to his lips and it would slide down, and the warmth would be gone. He would feel as empty as the shot glass that would sit on the table.

He'd splash more on the table than into the shot glass as he poured his seventh, and would bring his shaky hands to his lips, and tilt it back, and suddenly he would be able to hear the sobs from the floor below, and the muffled cries of Toris as he lay bleeding on the floor. Sometimes he would hear Raivis and Eduard descend the stairs to help him. But often he would not.

There would be no eighth. He wouldn't have the dexterity or strength left to pour another. Instead, he'd grab the bottle by its neck and bring it to his lips, and the sobs from below would fade. He would stop hearing them, because his own sobs would be too loud. His tears would not be enough to melt the ice.

He bottle would fall to the floor with its forgotten brethren, and Ivan would cry himself to sleep.

This is how Ivan Braginski operated.

His days would be hell for those around him.

His nights would be hell for himself.

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><p><strong>[I hope you enjoyed, or were at least mildly freaked out! Pretty pretty please review with Latvia on top? 3]<strong>


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